


At the Seams

by dogpoet



Category: Wallander (UK TV)
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Crying, Episode Related, M/M, Public Sex, Sidetracked, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogpoet/pseuds/dogpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stubble, the rumpled clothes from the day before, the bit of belly — they weren’t Mats’s thing — but the tears…when the tears came, it was as though someone had thrown petrol on a flame.</p><p>[Note: This is definitely BBC-verse Mats Ekholm (the profiler from Sidetracked), not novel-verse Mats Ekholm.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Seams

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by [ariadnes_string](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string).

At first, Mats Ekholm’s interest in Kurt Wallander was purely academic. 

In his short time at the Ystad station, Mats overheard the other detectives discussing both Wallander’s brilliance and the shambles that was his personal life — the separation from his wife, the fraught relationship with his daughter and his father — and Mats formulated a profile almost immediately: there was the man at work, the man who mocked Mats in the conference room and put on a grim face at crime scenes, and the man at home, falling apart. Mats was fascinated by the latter, the part he hadn’t fully seen, but which he knew to be leaking out at the seams.

Mats lured Kurt to the pub, away from the station, but still Kurt resisted discovery, saying, “I don’t need bloody analysing, okay?”

If there was one thing Mats knew how to do, it was to dig at people until they revealed themselves, and he already knew Kurt’s weak spots. “Where’s your daughter?” he asked, holding his breath, aware of his heart picking up speed.

Tears filled Kurt’s eyes. “Waiting,” he said, his voice breaking.

The stubble, the rumpled clothes from the day before, the bit of belly — they weren’t Mats’s thing — but the tears…when the tears came, it was as though someone had thrown petrol on a flame. 

“Come with me,” Mats said, sliding off the bar stool.

Kurt followed him easily to the pub’s washroom, which was cleaner than one would have thought. Mats bolted the door while Kurt leaned against the wall, letting tears roll down his cheeks. Mats neared, restraining himself as Kurt cried. He watched a tear drop to the floor and splash on the tile, and then he couldn’t hold back any longer. He lifted a hand to cup Kurt’s face, swiping his thumb across the soft skin near Kurt’s eye.

The tear glistened, temptation on his thumb. Kurt looked at him in surprise, but he didn’t pull away. Mats gently rubbed the tear into Kurt’s skin. Kurt had a few inches on him, but Mats bowed Kurt’s head so he could kiss the next tear, which was hovering, about to fall. Its salt hit Mats’s curious tongue like an electric current, sudden and jolting.

Mats could hear Kurt breathing, could feel the puffs of air, warm and moist, uncertain, before Kurt relaxed, and his hands came to rest tentatively at the small of Mats’s back.

“I don’t know,” Kurt said in the same broken voice he’d used a minute before.

“What don’t you know?” Mats whispered, licking at another tear and pressing his erection ever so gently against Kurt’s groin. Kurt was a mess, and Mats needed to clean him up. 

Kurt breathed, hitching breaths, near sobs. More tears. “What’s happening to me.” It wasn’t a question but an answer.

Mats kissed him. Kurt’s mouth was hot and thick from crying, his tongue like a clumsy animal, and Mats’s specs were in the way. He cursed them, parting from Kurt to remove them and slip them into his pocket.

“I can’t breathe,” Kurt said, half laughing after he said it. He sniffled. “I haven’t done this since I was a teenager.”

“Had sex in a washroom?” Mats asked, trailing light fingers down the front of Kurt’s trousers.

Kurt smiled again, even as he shed more tears. “No. That, I’ve done.”

Mats wanted to catch each tear on his fingertips, make trails down Kurt’s skin, touch his own cock with them. Kurt leaned to kiss him again, still bunged up, awkwardly breathing through his mouth. Mats busied his hands, unbuckling Kurt’s belt, unfastening his trousers and pulling down the zip. His hand dived between trousers and pants to palm Kurt’s cock until Kurt made a soft sound of permission, of want. Mats didn’t do any more than was necessary: he worked his hand inside Kurt’s pants and, skin to skin, in that close half-darkness and heat, Mats grabbed without finesse, jerking Kurt’s cock in quick, rough movements, all the while watching Kurt’s face, his closed eyes, the evaporating tears. Before long, Kurt spilled over Mats’s fist, his body taut and still. Mats stared at the come on his hand. It was a bit like tears. Concentrated tears. He let go of Kurt’s cock and carefully removed his hand from Kurt’s pants.

When Kurt finally opened his eyes, he looked round for a moment, disorientated. “Sorry,” he said, his gaze falling to Mats’s hand. “Here.” He reached for a paper towel from the dispenser.

The paper felt rough and impersonal after what they’d just done. Kurt seemed to realise this. He brought Mats’s hand to his mouth and kissed the heel of his hand, letting his tongue tease the skin. Mats closed his eyes, kept them closed, listening and feeling as Kurt liberated him from his trousers and boxers. He sensed broader movement, heard the cracking of joints, and he opened his eyes to find Kurt on his knees.

“I’m not as young as I used to be,” Kurt complained, adjusting his knees on the tile floor. He stared up at Mats, eyes red-rimmed. “I’m not a profiler from Stockholm.” His blunt fingers caressed Mats’s cock. “But I’m not blind either.” He nudged Mats’s balls, then spoke quietly against his skin. “Ask me something.”

“What?” 

“You know what to ask me.” Kurt’s voice cracked. “Ask.”

Mats understood. He laid gentle fingers in Kurt’s golden-grey hair. “Tell me about your wife. What made her leave you?”

He felt Kurt’s breath, felt his kiss. The tears were coming again — Kurt knew the answer, and it was pouring out of him. Mats caught a tear on his finger, then spread the drop of moisture over the tip of his cock. With his thumb and two fingers, he slid his foreskin back and forth over the ridge. He was both desperate to come and loath to do so because it would mean an end to this, an end to Kurt placing open-mouthed kisses along his shaft, eyes leaking tears.

“I can’t change,” Kurt said. “I keep trying, and I can’t.” 

Mats slowly lowered himself to his knees so that he was level with Kurt. He wiped tears and more tears, then leaned to kiss Kurt again as he fisted his own cock with tearstained fingers, near crying himself by the time he achieved release. 

For a moment, they were both silent, catching their breath. 

Mats buried his face in the crook of Kurt’s neck. “You don’t need to change. You’re perfect as you are,” he said. And he meant it.


End file.
